Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1)

by Jennifer Millikin

  Jenna stares at me, her face only inches from mine. Her blue eyes are cold. It’s terrible timing, but I can’t control my thoughts, and right now I’m picturing Aubrey’s eyes and how, even when she was revealing to me her ugly truth, her blue eyes remained warm.

  “No.” The surprise is gone from her face. Now her gaze is steady, a carefully placed mask of frosty calm. “I signed up to marry Isaac the brilliant orthopedic surgeon. Not Isaac the single dad.” She steps away from me.

  I silently repeat what she’s said, just to make sure I understood. Her no is echoing in my mind. “Are you kidding me?” I have to ask, because what she just said is inconceivable to me. If the situation were reversed, I know where I would stand.

  “Isaac, I love you. I want to build a life with you.” She takes another step away, her eyes on me. “I want kids, you know that. Just not somebody else’s.” She pivots and walks from the kitchen.

  Like someone punched me in the gut, the air whooshes out of me. How could someone not want Claire? I hardly know her, and I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  I stay there, in my kitchen, until Jenna comes back a minute later. Her roller bag is behind her, and I realize she was still packed from her trip.

  “It’s not fair of you to expect me to accept this.” She stands straight, like she’s up against a wall.

  “I knew you’d be upset, but—”

  “Stop. Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to be a bigger person.” She waves a stiff hand while she speaks. “Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to be understanding. It’s not fair for you to expect me to want this.”

  I’m not sure if I’m stunned or disappointed or both. “If you loved me, really loved me, you would find it in your heart to love what I created. She’s a part of me. That will never change. And now that I know about her, I’m never going to be without her.” I feel it so strongly that I wonder if, on some level, I knew there was a person out there with my DNA. The moment I spent in Claire’s bedroom, watching her sleep, I felt whole.

  Jenna stares at me, her face stoic. Between the empty expression and the white blond hair, she looks like an ice queen. With a heart to match.

  She pivots and walks, the small plastic wheels on her roller bag making the only sound in the place.

  Bump, bump, bump into the foyer.

  Bump, bump, bump over the threshold.

  The slam of the front door is like the exclamation point on her noisy departure.

  I could go after her. Make her see my side of this. Ask her to look at it differently. The seconds tick by and I stay frozen in place. After a minute, I know I’ve lost the chance.

  Honestly, I don’t know if I wanted it.

  The swings were always my favorite as a child, and they’re Claire’s favorite too. Seven times since she woke up this morning I’ve told her she won’t be on the swings again for months. And just now makes the eighth time I’ve said it.

  “But, Mom.” She draws out the vowel so it sounds more like Mo-om.

  “No, Claire,” I say a little too sharply. Regret blossoms instantly.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” I pull her up against my side, careful not to touch her hurt arm. “I’m just a little out of sorts today. Forgive me?”

  I feel the bob of her little head against my thigh.

  “What can I do today?” She sighs and sits down carefully on the little pink-and-yellow striped chair with her name embroidered on the slipcover.

  “We can play games. We can watch a movie. Just take it easy until you get your real cast.” This isn’t going to be simple. Claire is accident-prone, but she always bounced off whatever she collided with, including the ground. Before yesterday we joked she had rubber bands for bones.

  “Hmph,” she says, petulant. If she could cross her arms right now, she would. “I wish Grandpa was here.”

  My dad left early this morning. He didn't tell me where he was going, but it's his day off, so it's safe to assume he’s trekking over some far-off mountain and he’ll be gone all day. Hunting is his passion, and if he's not hunting, he's hiking.

  “What if I told you you’re going to have a visitor?” I try to smile, but trepidation might as well be my middle name right now. How am I ever going to tell her about Isaac?

  She nods enthusiastically and bounces a couple times in her chair. I wince and put my hands out to settle her down.

  “Aunt Britt?” she asks.

  “No.” I make a mental note to call Britt later. Hi, Claire broke her elbow and had surgery and the surgeon turned out to be the guy who fathered her. K, bye.

  I attempt a nonchalant smile. “Dr. Cordova is going to stop by.”

  Claire sends me a questioning look. Even her four-year-old brain finds it odd. Our pediatrician has never visited our house.

  I grab a book off the shelf and open it. It’s a Magic Treehouse chapter book, one we’ve read a dozen times, but Claire loves it. Soon she’s swept up in the story, and the swings and our impending visitor are forgotten.

  We finish the book and start another. We finish that one, also, and one more. She hands me another, but I put it back on the shelf.

  “I need a break. Mommy’s mouth is getting tired.” Besides, it’s time for the next dose of pain medicine, and Isaac will be here soon.

  She takes the medicine without a fuss and follows me to our bathroom. Claire sits on the toilet lid while I make myself presentable.

  “Can I have lipstick too?”

  “It’s lip balm. And yes, you can.” Her tiny hand reaches for the tin. I hand it to her, forgetting for a moment that she can’t do anything with it, thanks to her broken arm. Bending down next to her I take the tin, then hold it out so she can scoop a little balm on her finger and apply it. My breath catches in my throat when I watch her little hand work. Her mind is intelligent, her heart big, and her soul brave, but her finger is tiny.

  She finishes smearing the cherry lip balm on her lips and smiles at me proudly. Using my pinky, I rub off what’s beyond the lines of her lips and smile at her.

  “Now I look just like you,” she announces, her smile wide.

  And she does…sort of. But after seeing Isaac yesterday, it’s clear how much she resembles him.

  Leaving the bathroom, we settle in the living room and play Candy Land. Every few minutes, my gaze strays to the clock.

  “I won again!” Claire yells gleefully.

  “How do you keep winning?” I ask, making a silly frown face. It’s possible I stack the deck in her favor.

  There’s a knock at the door, and my heart moves into my throat. I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans as I walk, and run them through my long hair. With shoulders squared, I pull open the front door.

  Oh, my heart… my poor, stupid, lonely heart.

  Isaac has his trademark smile ready. His white T-shirt looks soft. I like the way it spreads out over his chest, how it hugs his biceps. His pecs are big enough that it causes a ripple in the shirt, like a plateau that suddenly drops off. Don’t even get me started on the tan of his skin against the stark white of his shirt.

  “Aubrey?”

  I finally look into his eyes, a blush warming my cheeks when I see the confusion in them.

  “Yes, hi, I’m sorry.” I stand aside to let him in. “Just nervous.” Is that what you want to call it?

  “Me too,” he says, walking past me.

  His scent swirls in the air. Smoky wood and vanilla, mixed with something sweet. It makes my legs feel weak and wobbly. I make good use of the open door by leaning against it and turning my head to gulp the fresh air flowing in.

  He has a fiancée. Remember that.

  “Hi, Claire. How are you?”

  Isaac saying Claire’s name brings me back to reality. I close the door and hurry into the living room, where Isaac is folding himself into a cross-legged seat beside Claire.

  “Hi, Dr. Cordova.” Claire smiles up at him, then resumes her gathering of all the Candy Land cards. She’s turning them all face up and then pu
tting them in piles by color. It’s a process, especially one-handed, but she’s determined.

  “You can call me Isaac, if you’d like.” He leans a cheek against a fisted hand and rests his elbow on his knee. The look on his face is unfathomable. I couldn’t describe it if I wanted to.

  “Mommy, what is Dr. Rialta’s first name?” Claire doesn’t look at me, too intent on her sorting.

  “I don’t remember. Why?” I settle myself on the floor, closer to Claire than to Isaac.

  “Can I call Dr. Rialta by her first name too?”

  I can’t help but laugh. Isaac grins.

  “No, honey. Dr. Rialta is just your doctor.” I pause to look at Isaac. His eyes are on me, waiting for me to continue. Emotion ripples across his face, and to me it looks like hope. “Dr. Cordova, I mean, Isaac… He’s special, baby. More than just your surgeon.”

  My stomach knots. Am I going to tell her now? Is this the right time? And what will it even mean to her? She’s a child. How will she make sense of this?

  I take a deep breath. Go into this without expectation. That’s the best you can do.

  Isaac’s gaze is still on me. I look into his eyes, trying to assess and understand what he wants me to do. He nods his head, only a little, but it’s enough.

  “Claire, can you take a break from what you’re doing and look at me?”

  She drops the cards and turns her wide, trusting face toward me. I gather her good hand in both of mine and wish desperately I could hold the other, too. But then if I could hold both her hands, none of this would be happening.

  “Isaac is special because…” I freeze, swallow. The words are there, but they won’t come out. I look to Isaac, eyes pleading. He scoots closer, until his crossed leg presses against my own. The smell of him fills my nostrils once more and makes this whole experience even more surreal.

  He covers our bound hands with one of his. “Claire, I’m your dad.”

  Claire stares at him, her eyes narrowed as she mulls over what she has just heard. My breath sticks in my chest, waiting for her next words.

  “Annabelle has a dad,” she says slowly. “So does Walker. And Alexa. And Kohen. They all have dads.” She falls quiet but keeps her eyes on Isaac. Then she looks at me. “I have a dad too?”

  I will not cry. I will not cry. When the burning sensation behind my eyes passes, I say, “Yes. Isaac is your dad.”

  She looks back to him and nods her head. “OK. I liked you when I met you anyway.”

  Isaac and I laugh, and it cuts through the thick tension in the room.

  “I brought my favorite patient a present.” Isaac grabs a bag lying next to the couch. How had I not noticed him carrying it? Oh, right. I was gaping at his chest, then gasping for air.

  Claire holds out her arm and grins excitedly. Isaac pulls a box wrapped in pink paper from the plastic bag and sets the gift on the floor. It's covered in loose, haphazard tissue paper, as if wrapped by a child. He's made it easy for her to open.

  In seconds she has pulled off the thin sheet of paper. “What is this?” She asks, turning the box over and looking at the back.

  Isaac sends me a disbelieving glance before he looks back at Claire. “LEGOs. Do you have any LEGO sets?”

  “No.” She positions the box between her legs and uses her thighs to hold it in place. With one hand, she tries to open the box. Isaac watches her with wonder on his face.

  “Do you want some help opening that?” he asks.

  Claire lets out a frustrated stream of air from her nose. “Yes.”

  “It’s OK to need help,” he says. “You’re at a disadvantage with your broken arm.” He looks up at me as he takes the box and opens it. “But it’s good to see her figuring out how to manipulate objects. That’s why kids don’t need physical therapy the same way an adult would in this situation. Play will be her physical therapy.”

  I nod and gather the ripped tissue paper. I need something to do with my hands. I’m on my way to the garbage can in the kitchen when I turn back around.

  “Would you like a drink, Isaac?”

  He looks up from the piles of LEGOs he and Claire are dumping onto the floor. “Only if I can watch you open it. I don’t accept open bottles from strangers.” He winks at me.

  I blush and look down even as a smile tugs on my lips. “One unopened bottle of water, coming right up.”

  I deposit the balled-up handful of paper into the recycling bin and grab two bottles of water, plus Claire’s pink water bottle with the purple unicorns on it.

  I step out into the living room and freeze. Isaac and Claire sit beside each other, LEGOs spread before them, bent over the instruction manual. Isaac points at a page, telling Claire what pieces they will need first, and then Claire puts her good hand on his knee, and he stops talking. She smiles up at him for a few seconds, then turns back to the pieces and begins rifling through them.

  Isaac looks up, finds me watching. His eyes shine.

  “Thank you,” he mouths.

  I don’t know what he’s thanking me for, and I don’t ask. This moment is too beautiful to be interrupted by mere words. There’s so much more happening here, so many emotions running as I watch these two people I’ve known but who didn’t know each other. Family, I think, but the other F word comes screaming into my mind.

  Fiancée.

  I join Claire and Isaac in their building of a magical dragon and the elves who command it, but I keep reality closer to heart. There’s no use dreaming of something I can never have.

  Next summer Isaac will be married, Claire will have a stepmom, and we’ll share custody.

  I’ll never have a happy little family, but is it really that big of a letdown? It’s not like I ever thought I would.

  I dreamed about Aubrey last night. Her long, dark hair, my hands running through it. She was in my bed, but she was wearing pajamas. Sensible ones. My bedroom door opened, and Claire ran in and jumped into bed with us. She bounced and smiled and told us we were sleeping too late. She didn’t have a cast on her arm.

  I know why I had the dream. It’s obvious. I spent the whole day with Aubrey and Claire. I stayed until John came home from a day spent scouting, which I learned was when you go to the place you’re planning to hunt and look around to get a feel for the area. It’s a foreign concept to me, scouting and hunting, but John made it sound interesting. My dad never does anything like that. His hobbies are gardening and golf.

  I like talking to John. He has a slower way about him, like he’s evaluating your words carefully before responding, instead of thinking about what he’s going to say while you’re talking. And I can’t help but admire him for being a single dad. Aubrey hasn’t mentioned her mom, or lack thereof, and Claire didn’t reference a grandma. I’m making the leap and assuming she’s not in the picture.

  Which I can’t understand. I didn’t understand it when Aubrey told me about her mom the night I met her, and I don’t understand it now. How a parent just leaves a child… It’s unimaginable to me. How can someone walk away from the child they created? How could someone walk away from Aubrey?

  Kind, brave, gorgeous Aubrey… She wears her misfortune like a suit of armor. Her face stays so calm, stoic, not revealing anything. But her eyes say much more than her mouth ever could. Speaking of her mouth… She has the prettiest, pinkest lips that twitch when she holds back a smile, which is frequently.

  I roll over and groan into my pillow. I’ve thought of Jenna a handful of times since she left. Considering I was going to marry her, I’d say that number should be a lot higher. But Aubrey? She has been rooted in place in my mind since I said goodbye to her last night.

  I need to get my head straight before I go to work. When I work, there can be no Aubrey, no Jenna, no problems, no nothing. My focus must be singular. That’s why I can’t miss my workout today.

  I jump out of bed, pull on running shorts and a T-shirt, grab my keys and phone, and head out. When my headphones are in place, I turn on something loud and frenetic. />
  Electronic music pounds in my head, and I pound the pavement. My route takes me a few blocks up and over, through a park, and, even though it’s barely light outside, I think of Claire and whether she’d like it there. Don’t all kids enjoy playing at parks?

  I pass the swings and something that looks like it spins if pushed. Maybe in a few months, when her arm is healed, I can bring her here. There aren't very many kids in my neighborhood, but it's safe and clean and the few neighbors I've met are nice.

  When I get home, I shower and eat breakfast. I have appointments all morning and a surgery this afternoon. Same goes for the next three days.

  Scrubs on, I head for my car. My phone dings with a text message. I halt for a second when I see her name.

  Claire is asking for you. Dinner tomorrow night?

  I type out my response, pausing to finish before I get in my car and turn it on. I drive to work with a weird feeling in my stomach. I know I’m excited to see Claire, and I wonder if any of this excitement has to do with seeing her mother too.

  I’m beat. It’s late, I’m tired, and I want a shower. I’d also like to erase the images of the small child who needed surgery late this afternoon. Right as I finished up my scheduled surgery, a nurse came to tell me there was an emergency. She handed me the x-rays, the fracture in his leg easy to see. What wasn’t so clear was how the injury occurred. That’s the part that has me feeling like I’ve been run over. I keep telling myself I did my job, and Child Protection Services will do their job now.

  I need food, drink, shower, bed. In that order.

  When I turn the corner of my neighborhood, I see my driveway isn’t empty like it’s supposed to be. Suddenly all those basic needs just got a whole lot further from my reach.

  I park and get out, walking to the front door. Jenna leans against the wall. Her wary eyes watch me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask tersely, coming to a stop in front of her. She made things perfectly clear on Sunday morning. She wants nothing to do with Claire.